I Can't Lose You
by fmapreshwab
Summary: A heartwrenching story we only saw from one side. What happened to Watson when the bomb went off? How did Watson and Adler find Holmes? How long was he in that hospital room, dressed like a German? Read and find out. Rated for extremely mild language.
1. A Night in Nine Elms

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language.

* * *

I will begin this account with a simple but important fact: I am not mad. This is, as all my collections in the past have been, the most complete and accurate recounting of the facts which I am capable of producing. The larger portion of the case which has been weighing so heavily on my mind of late has been highly publicized by every newspaper in London. As such, I shall endeavor to restrict the scope of my focus to that most singular event of the whole of the adventure, yet that which has received the least light. I wish now to recount the events surrounding the death of Sherlock Holmes.

I will assume that any study of the work of my friend, or indeed any citizen of England, is familiar with the unique adventure of the undead Lord Blackwood, and so I shall skip its early stages and begin my story with the night of the great explosion at Nine Elms. I must admit in this early juncture that the events of that night were, by and large, the fault of one man: me. I don't believe that fact ever made the light of the papers, but it is a very important one, perhaps almost as important as my testament of mental health.

A factory near the river, that was where I had told my companion we would find Blackwood's headquarters. I could actually hear the water's movement in the still night air. We had allowed Blackwood to escape while we endeavored to save the life of…not a colleague, not a friend, in fact an enemy, but I can hardly refer to her in such a manner. I had left Holmes to tend to Adler (see above) while I went out to search for signs of the dead man currently orchestrating the horror and fear of our nation. I saw his boat chugging away from the wharf and up the river, the man himself tipping his hat in my direction, and I made to run after it. Blackwood seemed to have that singular effect on me, that which had me acting before I had any notion of the consequences of those actions.

Holmes was just exiting the building with the Woman when I felt the wire give way against my ankle. Even now, looking back on that moment, I feel the bottom drop out from my stomach. I tried to save him, tried to protect him like I always do. The warning I called out was solely for him, though somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he would find a way to protect her; he will always find some way of protecting her. I saw the comprehension and, subsequently, the horror dawn in his eyes as he realized what was happening.

In spite of my warning, he continued to run toward me in some vain effort to save me. The warm feeling the gesture afforded me internally was matched and quickly surpassed by the heat forced upon me externally. I felt every stick of wood from the crates and barrels which had covered and hidden the explosive device as it entered my body, every degree of the awful heat, but it was all as nothing compared to what I saw. Time seemed to slow as a second explosion tore a hole through the warehouse, catching Holmes and throwing him across the dock. My heart was ripped to pieces as I realized that I had been unable to help him, even as several more explosions rocked the wharf, sending me through the air as well. I hit one of the columns holding up the overhang of the dock, and I was engulfed by the flames until they gave way to black.

* * *

When I woke, it was to the unpleasant and painful sensation of someone attempting to enter my windpipe laterally. "Any luck, Inspector?" I was vaguely aware that the voice I heard belonged to a large, no-nonsense man I believed was called Jones.

"Fraid not, Jones," Lestrade confirmed for me as I lay with me eyes shut, trying to quiet the angry buzzing in my head. The fingers had not moved. "I got no pulse. This'll be the good doctor's last case. A real shame, Jones. That dodger Holmes'll answer for this in a higher court than we could send him."

Surely they weren't talking about me. There must be some other poor soul called Watson who'd been caught in the blast. It occurred to me then what the fingers were trying to find. "Left," I rasped, and I could feel knives in my throat as I tried to swallow. Lestrade jumped slightly, then dug his fingers into my throat anew. "Your left," I grunted through gritted teeth. His fingers eased off mercifully as the inspector located my pulse. I risked opening my eyes and regretted it instantly. It had to be the middle of the night, but it was so damned bright.

I was suddenly aware of a horrible, blinding pain in my left shoulder. It blocked all else out, and for a moment I was unaware of what was going on around me. I couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think, but I had to know what was causing this pain, had to get rid of it. It was like a million splinters had been trust into me and set on fire, burning slowly through my muscle tissue and working their way into my bones. The night's memories rushed back to me at once, and I grabbed hold of Lestrade's wrist, the only solid object around me I could focus on. "Holmes?" was all I could manage, but it was enough. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I caught sight of his face. The look of anger and bitter disappointment that I saw there told me more than his words ever could.

I felt a cold seeping out from the core of my body, absorbing and destroying all other sensation. I lost sight of my shoulder wound and screaming head, and even the ever-present stabbing pain in my leg. I felt a grief the likes of which I had never known wash over me in that moment, like I was falling into a pit from which I would never escape, as though, with his life, so too had all the joy and good and light been extinguished from the world. I felt tears falling to either side of my face, doubtless visible as they cut through the soot and ash which caked it. I hadn't felt this pain, this horrible, crushing emptiness, when my father died, or my brother. I hadn't felt it when I watched men I had come to know, and even to like, being torn to shreds on the battlefield. This was different. In one fell swoop, I had lost my best friend, my constant companion, my roommate, my colleague, my associate, my favorite distraction from the pains of everyday life, the man for whom I would have given my life a thousand times over, and, in that moment, I lost my consciousness.


	2. The German in the Hospital

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.

* * *

Now, for the clarification of my reader and for the sake of my reputation, I will again attest to my own mental health. I am not now, nor was I at the time of this recounting, mad. I awoke to the unique scent of a hospital: disease and blood mixed with medicine and the best cleaning chemicals that can be found on hand. My shoulder still throbbed with the fresh wound, so I had yet to be seen by a surgeon. I squirmed slightly, aware that I was on my laying on my right side and trying desperately to get comfortable.

A rough hand was set on my bare side, and I realized that my shirt had been removed. I had the fleeting thought that I hoped they had taken the time to unbutton the shirt, rather than cut it off, as so often doctors did. "You must try to remain still, doctor. That is quite a wound you have; you mustn't risk further damage. The police who brought you in have chanced enough in the way they handled you." The voice was familiar, as were the words, the attitude conveyed in them, but with the heavy German accent, I couldn't quite make myself believe it. I forced my eyes open and saw something my mind wouldn't allow me to believe.

At first, I thought it must be the drugs they had given me. My head, though still pounding, was light and a certain sort of fuzzy which only accompanies the very best pain killers. Then I thought that perhaps I had died in the explosion, that everything which had followed was my own demented version of Hell, wherein my best friend had died, but I saw him in every new face. Finally, aided by my prior conclusion, I decided that I was, in fact, completely out of my mind.

Then those time old words he had spoken to me so many times over, that the simplest answer is often the correct one, echoed in my head. The face I saw looked so much like his, with some minor modifications. When I looked into his eyes, I saw the same oddly colored pools of liquid I had spent so much time with. The strong nose, the prominent brow, his hair looked ridiculous, but…. Was it possible that it could be him? Lestrade had said…what had Lestrade said? It was all so fuzzy, and my head hurt so much.

"Is that a rat on your face?" I asked after a brief silence. My throat had cleared since the blast, it seemed, as it no longer felt like a fresh burn every time I spoke.

"Doctor, I am sorry if you do not approve of my beard. I will excuse your words because of drugs." The tone was just condescending enough to belong to an actual doctor, and I once again doubted my eyes, and my mind.

But that simply couldn't be. It wasn't just the face, just the eyes. It was in the voice, the set of the jaw, the way he carried himself, the way he looked at me with the genuine concern born only of a long and eventful friendship. This was no doctor. I forgot everything for a moment, just long enough to laugh. I was in tears again. "I thought I'd lost you."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, doctor. You inhaled quite a bit of smoke, perhaps you do not know what you are saying." The man turned around, giving me a view of his back.

As happy as I had been a moment ago, I was now no less frustrated, even angry. "Holmes, you can not fool me so easily. I know that that is you under that awful furry thing."

The "doctor" turned and approached me rapidly. His face filled my vision as he bent to meet my eyes. I saw in his eyes urgency and concern enough to quiet me. When he spoke, it was in quick, hushed tones, as though everything he said was of an importance that I could not miss a single word, yet the words themselves were so difficult to say that they did not bear repeating. The accent was gone, and so was the condescending tone. "Watson, as much joy as the sound of your voice gives me at this moment, I must ask you to stay quiet. These are dangerous times in which we find ourselves."

"Dangerous?" I was confused, upset. The drugs were not at all helping me to keep my head, nor was my tone in any sort of check. As I spoke, Holmes kept looking around, as paranoid as ever I had seen him, as though the walls had ears and a direct line to someone he wanted to avoid like the pox. "Dangerous was running into that factory with no idea what we would find. Dangerous was running down that dock after Blackwood without a thought." I had to grab him by the chin with my good hand and force him to keep my eye contact. "Dangerous was the explosion that I caused, that almost took you from me. Lying in a hospital bed with a man I love, I just don't see the threat." It didn't even occur to me what I had said for a long time. Even now I 'm not sure what I meant by it.

Holmes looked at me, face softening and eyes full of…something I could not quite pin down, but which might have aspirations to something approaching the reciprocation of my proclaimed love. He touched my forehead with the back of his hand. It was rough and cool and wonderful on my overheated skin. "You have a fever, doctor; you have no idea what you are saying."

"I know exactly what I am saying. I need you. A lot more than you need me. You may be the one kicking and screaming about my intention to move, but you have to know that this terrifies me. I can't imagine what my life would be without you. I can't lose you. I don't think I could stand it, survive it." My vision began to blur and I felt unconsciousness again pulling at my brain. I found his hand with mine and held it tight. "Stay with me. For a while." With that, the drugs took over once more.


	3. Hysterical Women and One Mad Surgeon

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.

* * *

I didn't wake up until the early evening, and I was disappointed to see that Holmes had left. I began to doubt that it wasn't some fever dream, enhanced by the drugs coursing through my veins. I knew someone else was in the room, standing behind me, but somehow I knew it wasn't him. My suspicions were confirmed when I caught sight of Mary coming around the foot of my bed. "Oh, John, you're awake," she cried with a combination of relief and distress. "So much has happened!"

"Mary? Where is he? I need to find Holmes!" My mouth had begun working without my brain's permission.

A look of shock came over Mary's features as she looked down on me. "That's amazing. He was here, only a few moments ago. He had dressed himself up as a doctor and snuck in here. You know, I wonder if he wouldn't have actually performed surgery if I hadn't come in." She laughed lightly, a nervous sound that told a greater story than her words.

She was laughing, but all I could think was that he had gone because she had come. I know it isn't fair, but in that moment she was not the person I wanted to see. She didn't have the answers I needed, she couldn't help me catch that blackguard Blackwood, and she certainly wouldn't be helping me from this bed any time soon. He probably would have pulled the wood right out from my shoulder if she hadn't come in.

I suppose there is some great metaphor to be seen in that, the likelihood of the two ever coexisting in one man's life, my life, if they cannot stay in the same room. Were I a more philosophical man, I would say that for the rest of our shared lives, for indeed all three would have to be intertwined from this point on for any of us to be anything approximating happy, one would always be leaving me as the other approached, never either of them able of standing the other for more than a few moments. But I will leave that for another time, perhaps another pen.

Mary was speaking again. "It was really rather…touching. That he would go to such lengths to ensure your safety." The look on her face, however, told a different story. She looked…angry, almost. Definitely upset about something. "How did you know he'd been to see you?"

I ignored the question in favor of the more interesting piece of information she had relayed. "No, no that's not right. He…snuck in? What a silly man he is. Why can't he just come in and visit me like a normal person?" He had been acting strangely during his visit…perhaps he had run afoul of my doctor? I wouldn't have put it past him to demand entrance to my room, only to sneak in when he was rebuffed. But if that were the case, surely he could have done better than that hackneyed disguise. It was all very puzzling.

"John, there's something you should know." Mary became upset very easily, but even so I could see that something was really and truly wrong in the world from the look that came across her face then. I could tell that she was on the verge of delivering some very bad news, and I tried my best to prepare myself for it.

That was the moment Irene Adler picked to burst into the room. "Oh, doctor, there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you. Those stupid police wouldn't tell me where they had taken you. I told one of them I was a nurse with your practice, another that I was you're your maid and I was worried because you hadn't come home last night. I even tried the worried sister routine with one of them, nothing."

I had less experience with Adler than I had with Mary, but it seemed to me that she, too, was deeply upset. Perhaps it was just that her ploys had failed to sway the police. Perhaps her current state had something to do with her dwarf, Reardon. Perhaps they were upset about two different matters, both unrelated to me. Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on my part. Whatever the case, I had to find out.

I looked from Mary to Irene and back as quickly as my shoulder would allow. "What's going on? What's happened?"

"They've put out a warrant for his arrest!" Irene flung herself into the chair on the far side of the room.

"Who put out a warrant? Who's being arrested?" Adler was a first rate criminal, but she was a third rate informant. This was all very frustrating. All I wanted were the facts. I started thinking that perhaps I knew how Holmes felt every time we started a new case.

"Coward put out a warrant for Sherlock's arrest last night." She fretted for a moment in her chair, more upset than I'd ever seen her. "I hit my head on something and got knocked out during the explosion. When I came to, he was gone and the police were crawling all over that warehouse. He must have put some crates over me to hide me, so I was able to get away before anyone noticed me. I've looked everywhere and put the word out with all my criminal contacts. No one's seen Holmes since last night!"

Mary had paled since she entered, and I was sure she had been about to tell me the same thing, with some minor adjustments, of course. I decided in an instant not to tell Adler about his visit. I had already decided that Mary didn't need to know that I had seen him. I don't know why, but it felt like the conversation we had shared was our secret, and it would be sacrilege of the highest order to expose it to them.

The news was quite disturbing, and the outlook bleak, but I knew what had to be done. The surgeon I was scheduled to see had clearly been into the room at least once, as his tools were set out on the small table next to the bed. I pulled it closer to me and began to sort through the various scalpels and forceps, trying to find the right set.

Just when I had found what I needed and set myself to my task, Mary reached for the scalpel in my hand, trying to take it from me. "John, what—what are you doing?"

I fixed Mary in that moment with a sterner look than ever I had employed with her before. "I need to help him. Whatever it takes." My voice wash harsh, and my face was hard. I believe that she saw in that moment a side of me she had never seen before. For the best, I suppose, that she knew what it was she was getting into before we were to be married.

Her voice was strident still. "But John, the doctor said—".

I did not let her finish. I spoke to her in a voice with which I am now somewhat surprised. "I am the doctor now," I told her in a tone that allowed for no argument. "I will make any decisions that need to be made, and now I say that I am going to clean my wound, and then I am going to find and help my friend." She looked somewhat taken aback, but she removed her hand from mine and allowed me to work. "You should go."

Perhaps I was angry with her for trying to stop me, perhaps I wanted to spare her the sight of the awful things I saw every day, or perhaps I just didn't want her to see me in the intense pain I knew I would soon be facing. Whatever the reason, I didn't want her there, and the hurt look on her face told me that she understood that fact perfectly. She turned on her heel and strode out of the room with the air of someone who will not be called back. In that moment, I didn't care if that was the last time I would ever see her.

* * *

It was slow and painful going, but, with the help of Irene, I was able to free myself of the wooden shrapnel which had been so painfully thrust upon me in a matter of half an hour. I redressed as quickly as possible, though it, too, was slow going for the pain. The surgeon was just coming down the hall as I left the room. After a quick goodbye to Mary, who had stationed herself in the hospital's family waiting area, and some mumbled assurances that I wouldn't do anything rash or dangerous, I left the hospital in the company of Irene Adler with the unavoidable feeling that the world was coming down around me. Holmes had been made a criminal by corrupt men, and I was off gallivanting around London with one of the most notorious criminals it has ever been my pleasure to know.

We had walked some short time in silence before we began to talk. We had put together the beginnings of a plan as she helped my pull the wood from my arm, but I had been understandably distracted at the time. I had felt the necessity to keep any real courses of action vague and indefinite in Mary's presence, and even after she had gone, all my will was bent on not screaming as I pulled wood fragments from my muscles. And, as Holmes had tried to tell me during his visit, you could never be too sure who was listening.

But I spoke quickly, now, without looking at Irene. There was little time, and the police would be trying just as hard to find him as we were. "There are a few places he likes to go, when he needs to hide or when he's trying to keep up a disguise, places he's never mentioned in the company of our more official associates." As I spoke, I scribbled a few addresses down on the page of a notebook I had carried with me to the dock the night before. It all seemed so long ago now. "You start at the top of this list, check every address until you find him. I'll start at the bottom. If neither of us finds Holmes, we meet back at Baker Street. We'll go from there."

We came to the corner of two main streets, and we made to part ways. "Good hunting," Irene said with a smile.

"To us both," I returned, then turned my back on her.


	4. And Though He Walked Through the Valley

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.

And, on a more personal note, a hearty thanks to those of you taking the time to review. The encouragement is appreciated more than you know. Take it away, Doctor.

* * *

I walked as quickly as was possible down the side-streets and back-alleys of London on that gray November night. I remember much of that night, but the smell seems foremost in my memory every time I turn my mind to it. I had originally thought to put the more respectable of Holmes's hideouts at the top of the list, giving Adler the pick of to crop, as it were, saving her this dark, dank underside of the great city. That hope died quickly as I realized that Holmes _had_ no respectable hiding places; that would completely defeat the purpose.

The address on the bottom of the list I had crafted, my first destination, was an opium den I had known Holmes to visit some few times in disguise. He had initiated a sort of vendetta some few years back under suspicion that the owner served his customers until they died of an overdosage, then robbed and hid the bodies. He had yet to prove it, but Holmes never gave up.

I had very intentionally put this location at the bottom of the list. It wasn't as if I doubted that Holmes would be here; there were several empty rooms upstairs that, for a small bribe, the owner was more than happy to rent out, and the building itself was just far enough from the beaten path to avoid the suspicion of the police. But, though wounded and desperate, I was still a gentleman and, despite all evidence to the contrary, Irene was still a lady. If he was anywhere, in any of his little hiding places, his rabbit holes we sometimes called them, I would be able to spare Adler the sight of this place.

The trouble with the den, as his place of refuge and my starting point for locating him, would be that if he were to come here, he would have to find some disguise. I knew from recent experience that he was capable of throwing together a convincing alteration on short order, but anything he improvised would be unfamiliar to me, as the German doctor would likely be considered unsuitable for this particular venue. I would have to find a way to check every face in the whole of the place without getting caught at my game by the owner.

As I approached the large, plain brick building set back from the street, I still had no plan of action to enact. Then it all came together in an instant. I was struck so forcefully by the idea in that moment that I had to stop walking entirely. If he could throw together so convincing a disguise in such quick strokes, I could certainly get by in a room where, as far as I knew, no one would have cause to know my face. As I walked up to the entrance, I enhanced my limp and began to walk with a stoop to my back. I still had the fever, and so my face was red and sweating profusely, which, in this case, was to my advantage.

I came down a small flight of stairs and into the foulest pit of human hopelessness I have to this day seen. The close, dim interior was full of smoke and the stench of death. In that moment, I decided that Holmes was right about the sinister nature of the place. There were narrow corridors stretching to either side of the door, each packed with men in varying states of disarray and degrees of stupor. I had walked a few feet before any of them noticed me. Between the soot on my clothes and the important pieces of dress which were still missing from my person, among them my jacket and waistcoat, I imagine they thought me a fellow spirit.

I was approached before I had gotten through a quarter of the men in the first corridor. The manager, from what I had heard of Holmes's description of him, was coming at me with an angry, suspicious sort of look on his face. I decided in that moment that this would be the test as to exactly how much I had learned from Holmes over the course of our adventures together.

The man seized me roughly by the wrist, obviously perceiving me as weak due to my conveyed physical deficiencies. "Oy, what you doin' in here?" I wanted very badly to knock the man back on his bum for handling me in such a way, but I held the impulse in check.

I winced back from the man, covering my disgust with feigned fear. I choked out some horrid accent and did my best to make my voice sound faint and thin, as though I had had nothing to drink in several hours. "Wouldn't grudge a poor man a place to stay from the weather, would you, Gov? I can pay. T'ain't much, but I can pay." I took a large, shocky step away the man who still held my wrist and held out a shilling.

The man glared at me as he took the money. "One hour. No more. I see you after that, you'll be right sorry you ever came in." He sneered at me a moment before releasing me and turning his back.

"God bless you, Gov," I called after him in an unsteady voice as he stalked off. I didn't have time to pat myself on the back as I returned to my search, or even to reflect on how many times I would have to wash to get the smell of that man out of my nose. I made my way through the first corridor with difficulty and no success. It was slow going with my worse limp and my pounding head, and every face in which I saw no sign of my friend, every failure, gave me such pause that I felt I would not be able to continue. But I made my way through with all the swiftness I could muster without looking suspect.

Toward the middle of the second corridor, I collapsed into one of the few chairs of which the establishment could boast. I told myself that I would be only a moment, that my rest was well earned and would be quickly executed. But between the illness I had yet to overcome and the weight of my worry, I cannot say how long I sat, motionless and thoughtless, in the dark corner of that festering pit of desperation, to which I was adding more than my fair share.

At times, as I sat attempting to recover my strength, I thought I heard him in my ear, and my head would whip around of its own volition. But, as I reminded myself every time I found myself facing a wall or some old crone out of his mind on the drug, it was merely my mind trying to make sense of the senseless rush of blood in my ears. I really wasn't at all in good condition, and probably should not have been out of bed. When I think now of all the long-term horror that outing could have wrought on my health…well, I don't regret it for a moment, but I probably should.

Eventually, I pulled myself together enough to make a go of the stairs. As I have mentioned, there were some few rooms above the opium house, and the stairwell was located at the end of the second corridor, which I had so nearly rounded out. I hadn't the slightest idea where the owner had gotten himself off to, but he hadn't come after me yet, so either my hour wasn't up or he had found some more pressing or more interesting cause to which he could bend his mind. I had to assume that the latter was more likely because, though I had no real reckoning of time at this point, I noticed that some of the faces I had seen before I took my rest had wandered out, and new ones had found their way in place of the others. I would have to make another short sweep of the newer faces on my way out.

I made for the stairway and found the door at the upper landing to be both unguarded and unlocked. It was probably for the best, as I had neither the subtlety nor the finesse Holmes had, on several occasions, assured me was necessary for successful lock-picking. I had mounted the stairs in as nonchalant a manner as possible, hoping to exude the air of someone who knows where he is going, someone who belongs, when in truth I hadn't a clue what I would find when I reached the top. It wasn't easy, dressed as I was, to give off the necessary confidence, and I found myself wondering how Holmes reconciled the issues inherent in disguise-keeping. I daresay that if the tenants of the building had not exclusively been drug-addled, senseless husks of men, the game would have been up right then.

When at last I had thrown the door to and entered the second level, I found some four or five rooms laid out along a central corridor. None of the rooms were of particular interest to me as, though some were occupied, none held the object of my search. After some few mumbled apologies and one very embarrassing episode I shan't recount (suffice to say I learned some few things about physiology even doctors should not have to know) I found myself once more descending the lonely staircase into the pit of woe.

I did not at all think it odd when, upon reaching the lower end of the stairway, I realized I had some great aversion to actually coming down from that last step. I know others may find it so, but I think in my mind that last step was all that held me above that rabble, and I was so unwilling to let go of that imaginary superiority. I simply did not wish to find myself among their ranks once again, ever again. Another thing I would have to ask Holmes about, I decided, and just thinking his name gave me the motivation I had been lacking to once again pass through the valley of the shadow of depravity and madness. I feared no evil for Holmes was with me. I smiled a little as I thought that last, but there was no one sane enough to notice.


	5. The Shifty Face of London

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.

Also, huge apologies for the erratic (okay, I admit it, _ungodly_) update schedule, but I've been in a bit of a crunch of late. This story has another chapter or two in it after this, and I'll try to get that put together in the next week or so after this has been posted. And, once more, a heart-felt thanks to my reviewers.

* * *

After that lair of squalor, I was glad to be out on the cool streets of London. I took the most direct route I could find to my next destination, a small flat over the boxing ring Holmes frequented when he was feeling restless, and as I walked I attempted to scrub some of the grime from my face with the sleeve of my shirt. Holmes had a certain amount of trust built up with the owner of his favorite haunt from the many years I understood he had been lending the place his patronage, and he had been lining the man's pockets all that time on the bets unsuspecting men had laid against him.

It was by no means a truly bad place, the boxing ring. It was not a place terribly respectable men frequented, but it did not have a residue of evil coating the walls, like some places I could readily mention. It was a pleasant enough change from the cold of the streets, if only for a short time. As the night grew darker, this particular house of violence filled like a bottle being forced underwater, but it was early enough yet that I could pick the large man out of the crowd with a ready enough ease.

He was a round man, in the jolly sense. I never quite understood how such a seemingly good man managed in the oppressive atmosphere of violence which permeated his place business, but he seemed to enjoy it more than I might have thought appropriate. He greeted me eagerly, and I was glad to be in a place where I didn't have to hide myself.

"Fights ain't started yet, doc, but you're welcome on in just the same. How's your ol' boy? Took quite a beatin' the other night, not that he did'n' give good as he got. He settin' all right? Healin' up an that?"

I took the man's offered hand, and as I shook it I took in his words. "He's certainly been better. You haven't seen him then?"

"Not since…couple nights back, musta been. Your ol' man cleaned up." The man smiled as he shook his head. He always seemed to be in slight disbelief of my friend's skills in the ring.

The man had an odd manner of speaking, and the way he referred to us always made me just a bit uneasy, but I liked the man all the same. I gave him a swift pat on the shoulder and told him that I had to be going. He gave me quite an odd, knowing sort of look, but he didn't question, and he didn't pry. That was why Holmes liked this man, this unobtrusive, cheery man who never asked more questions than he knew would be answered.

* * *

Although I had failed at yet another location, the climb up the stairs was a less somber one than I had expected. Perhaps it was the air of the place, perhaps the company, but my spirit had seemingly been refreshed. I found myself entertaining foolishly optimistic thoughts before long as I roamed the streets in pursuit of my next stop. Perhaps Irene was having better luck. I'd probably just end up checking all six spots, then turn back to find them waiting for me at the flat. Yes, that was it, it had to be.

But as I climbed the stairs of the brothel I used to hesitate to enter, I cringed. It wasn't from shame or embarrassment, at least not this time. I was keenly uncomfortable in such a place, and always nervous that I might be seen by someone, anyone.

Now, gentle reader, I must issue reproach for the impression I'm sure you've allowed yourself to glean from all this. Shame. Holmes is simply not that sort of man. The brothel, understandably, had several rooms which, at any given moment, may or may not be occupied. They were the same to rent as to…well, I should surely assume you know what goes on in such places. In any event, Holmes was not a patron of this establishment, merely a tenant.

But that is all quite beyond the point. As I climbed the stairs to the flat which housed the house of ill repute, I cringed. I recognized the woman coming down the stairs toward me, and yet, as I said, my expression was not one based in shame, but in bitter disappointment. It was Irene. The very instant she caught my eyes, her face fell. "No luck, then?" I asked dismally. So much for baseless hope. It had been imprudent, anyway, and Holmes would have been quite annoyed had he been privy to my thoughts. Well, he would have been many things, but annoyed would most certainly have made the list.

We left the place, not exactly arm-in-arm, to return to the cold, dark street. We walked for a short time in silence, neither of us having any strong sense of direction at the time. We were wandering; I trying to think, she to…well, I suppose I should not even attempt to guess at what was going through her mind. Finally, I stopped, having come to a makeshift plan of action, or at least lack of inaction.

I turned on Irene. "Go back and wait for me at the flat. There are some few places to which I must venture alone. I'll wire you when I find him." To any casual reader, that may sound arrogant, assuming I would find him the second I parted her company, but no casual reader has ever picked up a transcript of mine, and so I must confess that in that moment I could not give light to the possibility of my failure. I felt then that to allow for the possibility of defeat was to forfeit the battle entirely. And if I were to do that, then I would have had no business stepping on to the field in the first place. I simply had not come so far to walk away.

I saw confusion in Irene's eyes. "You're going off on your own?" Then, even as I watched, I saw understanding, followed closely by pity, draw over her face. "What's the matter, doctor, don't you trust me?" Normally this last would have been spoken with the devil's own mischievous grin, but by then I believe she sensed in me the desperation of a man unwilling to admit a loss. Indeed, I daresay she only asked because she knew I would expect it of her. The smile she gave me was a sad and demeaning one, but I knew that to press on was to keep that tenuous grip I had latched into the hope which was, at that time, sustaining me for a few hours more secure. Those few hours stood between myself and true hopelessness, and I would not relinquish them so easily.

"You know, he would never forgive me if I revealed all his secrets to a known criminal," I told her in a confidential tone, trying to keep the conversation light. I could hear our voices being dragged down all the time by the weight of our shared worry and distress. "As it stands, he may never excuse my bringing you this far."

She sighed lightly in feigned irritation, though her smile hadn't quite faded. "Men," she said, then shook her head. "I'll wait for you, but not forever." She held up a warning finger as she spoke, and I wondered idly if she had ever said that to Holmes.

Since I knew of no other places to search, at least for the time being, I decided to recheck the areas to which Irene alone had ventured. She had managed to get through the list with twice my speed, and I admit that I did not entirely trust her results. I knew Holmes's rabbit holes well enough to know when a proper search is called for, and when simply asking the barkeep would suffice. Adler suffered from a deficit in knowledge of that sort, and so it was entirely possible that she had overlooked something. I would continue to tell myself that as I walked along the street, until I thought of something better.

* * *

As I wandered the streets of London, seeking out my next stopping point, a horrible thought occurred to me. What if the police had already found him out, or worse, Blackwood had somehow caught up with him? Reflecting on the short time we had spent together, I realized he likely had more enemies than friends in this part of the city, and if anyone were to see through his paltry costuming….

I shuddered so violently that I collapsed against the exterior wall of a building I had been passing. Some few passers-by noticed me, and one young boy even stopped and bent down to ask after me, but I waved him off, assuring him that I was perfectly fine. I got a few odd looks from the pedestrians as I struggled to rise.

Then another thought occurred to me that made hot, sour anger rise in my throat. In my defense, I was over-tired and desperate, grasping at any thread which could possibly lead back to is being alive. I admit now that I am rather ashamed of myself for having the audacity to think such a thing of my dearest friend, but I began to wonder if it had all been set up, the explosion, the manhunt, my search, everything. I wondered if it wouldn't be outside the bounds of Holmes's resources and depravity to orchestrate it all as some sort of test to my loyalty.

I tried to look at the past few months from Holmes's perspective as I walked, seeing events through his eyes. I succeeded only in giving myself a headache. It was true that he and I had spent some great amount less time together since my engagement to Mary. And I had packed my things away and emptied out my room. I was drawing away from him, and, try as he might, he hadn't been able to prevent or reverse any steps in the process.

And, of course, I myself hadn't been any help over the course of things. I had chastised him, called him childish and horrible and inhuman. All I had done was focus on the repercussions my actions would have on me. I knew, I always knew, that it would be hard for him, but I never tried to help him to get through it. I could have made the transition easier on him, but I didn't. Maybe I even wanted to punish him a little, for not being someone I was capable of staying with.

But now I had really done it. I had allowed all of this to happen. If I had been more careful on the dock, if I had tried harder to get him to drop the case, if I had properly pronounced at the hanging in the first place. And now Holmes was missing, possibly jailed, possibly dead, probably alone, definitely not scared. He didn't have it in him to fear such things. And for all that I was incapable of finding him.

Oh, I'd certainly done it, hadn't I? I had checked all the possibilities, so very sure I'd find my quarry. I had allowed that silly girl, Adler, to pin all her hopes to my expertise in the field of all things Holmes. And I'd failed.

The simple act of admitting it, that awful, irrefutable fact, made my light head spin, and the buildings began to twist and shiver around me. I was not a well man. The world was spinning so fast, too fast, and I had never appropriately medicated for any of my ailments, and through my pounding head, all I could hear was the hellish screeching of his damned violin. He was always telling me how he found it so relaxing and mentally stimulating, but all I ever heard was an ungodly noise that.... Wait. That sound, that singularly peculiar scraping of his busy mind seeking a solution…. It had to be him, it just had to be.

The sound of the violin had come to a stop, but I was nearly sure it had been coming from a bar across the street. It happened that the bar had been my next stop. But if Adler had come and gone…. No, I would not allow myself to be discouraged. I entered the bar with a high head and a strong heart.

I expected some great struggle of finding out his room, but as soon as I had passed through the frame of the door, indeed before the door had even shut, an old woman was upon me from behind the bar. "He been expectin' ya, Gov."


	6. To Hide Forever in the Flame

AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Some very mild HolmesWatson in these later chapters, but only if you choose to see it. Rated for mild language. Also, on an FYI footing, this is my first story back from what I'll call a long-ass hiatus, so let me know if I'm a little rusty.

This is it, guys. I've put so much more into this story than I have into anything in a long time, and it's brought back in me that urge to create something and share it with the world. Thank you all, readers and reviewers both, for letting me share this with you.

* * *

The old woman who had approached me upon my entrance had taken me by the arm and proceeded to lead me up a flight of stairs as aged and decrepit as was she herself. She was speaking, I knew she was, but none of it registered in the part of my brain responsible for conscious thought. That piece of my mind was occupied by the one, single, solitary, all-consuming concept that, at the moment, bore any relevance to my existence: Holmes was alive. He was alive, and expecting me, and every step I took was one step closer to him.

We passed several doors on either side of the hall to which the staircase had led, and at each, she paused briefly, and my heart skipped a beat every time, until I feared that this short journey might actually be detrimental to my health. At the next-to-last door on the left, her pause was considerably longer, and her face crumpled in on itself, as if she were trying to remember something of importance, something very difficult to recall.

She turned as though to leave, but when she caught sight of me, her face cleared and she snapped her brittle old fingers, pointing at me and smiling. She turned back to the door, looking at it as though seeing it for the first time, and fished around in the pocket of her simple dress, bringing forth a key. She turned back to me, pressing the key into my hand and smiling up at me before toddling off down the hall to return to her post.

The key was very old and rusted, but so too were all the locks to the doors in the hall. The paint on the doors was peeling, and the whole place reeked of its age. I wondered fleetingly exactly how long the place had stood, serving as a bar and, apparently, temporary lodging for the down-trodden. The business must be a good one, I mused, to allow it to remain open so long, but not so good as to finance repairs to the building itself. I fancied I could actually hear the walls creaking under their own weight.

I shook myself, excusing the distraction only for the length of the night I had had and the stress of the preceding days. I put the key to the lock, and, to my utter chagrin, it took quite a bit of working, fiddling, turning and twisting on my part to actually slide the key into the tumblers, which gave way after some excessive force. The rust had nearly sealed the lock for eternity, which meant that the lock must have been initiated from the interior. My shoulder throbbed as I tried to force the door. I was becoming impatient with the obstacle before me, knowing that the object of my protracted search was just on the other side.

Finally, the door burst forth, and in what had become, after the aforementioned episode in the hallway, my intense frenzy, I didn't bother to close it. The knob left a dent in the wall adjacent, for which I was later tasked with paying, although I doubt very much that the old woman ever actually had it fixed. I flew into the room as a man insane, wild eyes casting about until I saw the figure lying prone on the bed, one of the few pieces of furniture contained within the room.

I smiled, I laughed aloud, I felt tears of joy roll down my cheeks. Were it not for my leg, I might have leapt with the overwhelming elation of it right there, I was simply that caught up in the pure joy of the occasion. As it was, I let out a strangled cry of delight and rushed to his side. Even the syringe lying on the floor beneath his feet could not tarnish the gleaming beauty of that moment. I kicked it under the bed on which he lay as I approached him. I sat myself down upon the bed, next to him as he lay in his dreadful, self-induced state.

It was all I could do not to pick him up and…hug him, clap him on the shoulder, harangue him for the ordeal through which he had put me, test his reflexes and check for any damage incurred during the great explosion which had set off this whole mess, do all those things I knew should have been done.

He tried to rise, but I put my hand on his shoulder and gently kept him in place. I performed a brief examination to be sure he hadn't pushed himself, as he often did, beyond his limits, even as extensive as they were. No fever, pulse slow but steady, pupils dilated, reflexes sluggish but functioning. Most of his problems could be attributed to the syringe I had tried in vain not to notice. He was well enough for the wear he had seen recently.

As the adrenaline of the ordeal began to leave my system, a wash of relief came to take its place. I bent down and gave Holmes a short kiss upon the forehead. I then bent my mouth down to his ear and whispered slowly to him, in a tone I hoped would convey more my relief than my exhaustion or irritation, "You are an incredible git, do you know that?" I rose to find him staring at the ceiling, the very barest ghost of a smile on his lips. "Is there anything you need?" I asked more loudly.

"The door," he muttered, holding out a weak arm in the direction from which I had come.

The door had rebounded off the wall and stood semi-ajar. I realized, or rather remembered, for the first time the danger my friend faced. I rushed to the door as quickly as I could manage and shut it with a force which was truly unnecessary. It had been difficult to open the door, but it slammed shut with relative ease. The lock was hard to engage, but not so hard as it had been to release.

As I turned back to return to him, I noticed for the first time the patterns which had been scrawled about the floor and walls. It was all quite disturbing, but it could wait, for the moment anyway. I knew when he had come up missing that he must have gone somewhere that would be conducive to his work, and I knew now that the symbology and scattered writing must be somehow connected to this whole, ridiculous affair. But it could wait.

I returned to Holmes's bed and marveled at his condition. I had been through hell, and he was still well enough to indulge in his distractions. His violin, I noted with some satisfaction, sat on the floor, leaning against the frame of the bed.

I smiled down at him, though I knew he wasn't looking, and shook my head in utter bafflement. "What _are_ you doing here?" I gestured to the room, the symbols all about, the building around us. I knew he was hiding, but how had he been filling his time, and what did all of this mean?

"I've solved it," he told the ceiling with great intensity. "I've solved it all. The whole thing, it's all so…I've solved it. I can fix everything. I can stop him."

He had many types of stupor, and I fancy I have seen almost all of them. My experience in the matter told me that this would be the type of daze in which he would be the most truthful, and of which he would have the least memory. He had, when he was this far gone, lost the guile and will to lie, especially to me, but he was so far removed from reality that he was incapable of recalling the conversations we occasionally had. But occasionally while in this state, he began to lose his lucidity and slip into mere, semi-sensical mutterings. Much as I hate to admit, I had taken advantage of this particular state in the past, when I needed answers to certain questions I was too frightened to ask when he was himself.

"You're working on the Blackwood case?" A stupid question, I know. There was nothing else at this time with quite the draw his case could offer.

"Is there anything else, my good Watson? Dear boy. No, nothing else. A reputation is at stake, is it not? The dead do not simply rise with vengeance in their still hearts. Such things must be remedied."

It was for me. He was doing this all for me. I felt a surge of guilt mixed with pride, but I couldn't let him see that, in or out of his hazy state. I covered my momentary lapse with the very first thing I could think of to say to him. "You know, we've been searching for you everywhere. And, mind, I _do_ mean everywhere. I don't even want to think about the places I had to go to find you, let alone speak of them. And Adler came to this place, asked after you. Why didn't the woman show her up?" I had been wondering aloud, not expecting a response, but yet again he surprised me.

His eyes were now half-shut, and his voice was distant, but he was still Holmes, still a man of answers. "I left instructions…with the bar-tending lady. I'm not to be disturbed, you understand. My work is far too important for that. It doesn't matter who wishes to see me, Watson, I am to be left in peace, my very presence denied outright."

"She let me up easily enough. Perhaps you should be more explicit in your future dealings with her." The remark was an offhanded one, but it produced the most peculiar result in him.

He grinned, truly grinned, eyes focusing on me for the first time. "Ah, but you see, my dear man, I was quite explicit indeed. I told her I was not to be bothered. But you, you dear Watson, are never a bother. If I could have gotten a message to you, something I knew you would get…" His eyes began to cloud over, but he held my gaze steadily. "I wish I could have spared you that. My world is no place for you to cast about alone."

I held his gaze a few seconds more, a sad smile tugging at my lips. He wanted to protect me from what I had seen, and I couldn't blame him for the urge. I patted his arm and made to rise, but his hand seized mine. "Stay with me, Watson, for a while."

I put my free hand to his cheek, touched that he would ask me to be with him when he was weak, my own similar words echoing in my head. It seemed a reasonable request. I had spent so many hours chasing hope through the city's streets, and at the expense of my own health and energy, that perhaps the rest was well deserved. And even if it wasn't, I would take it. Because he had asked.

* * *

I sat with him for a long time, watching over and defending him from anything which might come through the locked door. We were quiet for a while, sitting there while Holmes slipped further and further into his stupor. He muttered things I could not hear or understand, and from time to time he would smile.

"And what have you to smile about, you silly man?" I asked him, sure he couldn't understand me.

He smiled, pointing at me, and proved me wrong all over again. "I haven't lost you."

I sighed, knowing all too well from whence the sentiment had come. "No, you haven't lost me. You need only learn how to share me." I tried my very best to put my words into terms that would reach him, but I knew it was pointless at this stage. I realized I hadn't thought about Mary the whole time I was looking for Holmes, and I wondered if that might not mean something, something important.

"You are mine, Watson. I cannot lose you." The smile hadn't faded, but his voice was serious.

I gave his hand a light squeeze. "You never will, Holmes." He seemed satisfied by this, then drifted back to into his personal reality.

Holmes looked up at me some time later, and his eyes slid slowly shut. In a panic, I checked his pulse, but he was merely unconscious. I released his hand after a few minutes more and turned to walk to the far side of the room.

There was a mirror hanging on the wall above a small wash basin, and as I walked toward it, I caught sight of myself in the first mirror I had seen since leaving the hospital. My heart sank deep into my chest as I looked into my own eyes. I looked hollow, and I was still covered in the grime that I had used as camouflage in the opium den. I wondered that Holmes had even been able to recognize me under the layer of filth. Well, that was simply unacceptable.

I removed the tatters which remained of my shirt, taking in the sight of my ruined shoulder as I did so. It would need fresh bandaging. I noted as I removed my shirt that I had, somewhere along the way, lost several of my buttons. The thing was now more a shawl than a shirt, and soon I would need something more appropriate, though I hadn't the slightest idea where I might obtain anything of the sort.

I pulled the cloth from the basin and began to gently work the dirt from my face, then my chest. From my vantage, I could still see through the mirror Holmes lying on the bed, and for a moment, I swore I saw his eyes flutter open, and the trace of a smile flit across his face, but when I turned, I saw only the sleeping form of that strange, singular man, shifting slightly with each breath.

* * *

Sometime later, after the delicate proposition of reassembling my shirt, I went to the door and peered out into the hallway. It was dark out, as dark as it would ever get. The day would start before long, and before then, we needed to have some sort of plan. I had allowed myself some time to rest and to simply be in the same room as Holmes, a sort of relief I can barely describe or explain, even to myself, but now it was time to go to work.

I slipped down the stairs as quietly as could be managed, given their age and my limp. At one point, the stair nearly gave out beneath me, sending me careening into a wall, which tore my frayed shirt even further. Eventually, I once again found myself on the ground floor.

The old woman was still standing behind the bar, giving me a new appreciation for her age. I didn't know how far she could be trusted, but I was in a position to require her assistance, and, after all, hadn't Holmes trusted her far enough to bring me,_ 'And only me,'_ I thought with a swell of pride, up after him?

She saw me approach and met me at the base of the stairs. "Wha' cha need, Gov? Can I do ya fo'?" She seemed more eager to be of assistance than I might have given a woman of her age credit.

"Do you have a page, an errand boy who can be trusted?"

She smiled at me a moment, then turned to call behind her for someone called Ian. A young boy came out from behind the bar, so small I hadn't even seen him. He rushed up to me with a lop-sided grin on his face. "He'll do ya anathin ya need done." The woman smiled again, then returned to her post where a particularly belligerent man was hollering his drink order to the empty space behind the bar, seemingly unaware that there was no one there to serve him.

I handed the boy the telegram I had drafted in Holmes's room. "Send this telegram at the nearest post. It is to go to 221B at Baker Street. Do you understand?"

The boy spoke with a high, small voice. "Send a wire, 221B Baker."

"There's a good boy." I handed him a coin from my pocket, and his eyes grew to the size of plates. His face lit and he gave me some great expression of thanks, actually hugged me around the waist, then looked incredibly embarrassed and rushed out the door.

The telegram, as my readers may have gathered, was addressed to Adler. "221B Baker Street, care of Irene Adler [it read]. Found what we had been searching for. I need a few things, but cannot be brought to leave just now. In his room, under his bed you will find a green bag. Bring it. Grab my hat and walking stick on your way out. Address follows." I had to be as vague possible, just in case.

The bag I mentioned was one I had decided long ago to leave with Holmes in the flat, should the occasion arise that I could make use of it. It contained a change of clothes and some few basic medical supplies, along with some other few odds and ends that I may have found useful should I have had occasion to take up with Holmes once more. As to the stick and my hat, I had told Mary to drop them by the flat when we had parted at the hospital. Then, it had made sense, but I think now that I had only said it to hurt her.

* * *

After I returned to the room, I gave up any hope for the shirt and opted to forgo it entirely. Holmes was still asleep, and so it was not as though my modesty was at stake. I returned to the chair by his bed soon thereafter and resumed my vigil over his prone form. From time to time, he would call out in his sleep, and I would be there calm him. He would reach out, and I would be there, giving him something to grab. He would start up in the bed, his eyes would meet mine, and he would settle back into unconsciousness. After a while, I began to think about his drug habit, something I tried to avoid as much as possible, and I came to fear that he may be doing himself real harm. My thoughts were shattered a short time after that, and I cannot, in good conscience, say that I was sad to see them gone.

Although I had sent the telegram, it was merely as a formality. I did not, for even a single second, believe that Adler had done as she had been told. It was simply so far beyond her normal character that I considered it nearly impossible. I was actually rather surprised, then, when, roughly half an hour later after I had returned to the room, there was a knock upon the door, and there, in the hallway, stood Irene, holding my bag and looking rather annoyed. I noticed she carried with her an early copy of the paper, and I wondered if I hadn't seen the name Holmes across the top. The public would be made aware of all this soon, which made our action all the more prudent. Adler I opened the stubborn door, she took in my state of undress, but, to her credit, didn't even blush.

"I came here. I know I did. I came here and searched for him, and the old woman downstairs said no one who looked like him had come through the bar."

She was abrupt, even rude, but I was not surprised. I suppose that's the American in her. The relationship between Adler and myself has always been somewhat complicated. I liked her well enough, mostly because she was often good for Holmes. But she was so rarely present, and when she was gone, she ceased to be a factor in our lives, or his life, I should have said. Irene, on the whole, never much cared for me, likely because I, too, was often good for Holmes. Yes, my good reader, the two do sound similar, do they not? The simple difference is this: I always cared what was good for Holmes, always, while Adler spent most of her energy worrying about what was best for Adler.

And now that we had finally found him, she was more worried about how the situation reflected on her competence. "He's here now. Isn't that what matters?" For all that I wanted to tell her the truth of it, it was easier to allow her to think that he had come along after she had left. I took the bag from her as quickly as I could reason was polite and asked her to leave.

"Are you crazy? I just got here." There was that American spirit, alive and well in the dark districts of London.

I felt it was inappropriate for her to see me this way, even as I thought of her helping me in the hospital. It may seem strange, but every situation has its appropriate behavior, and in this one, it was appropriate for her to leave, whether I could make her see that or not. "I have to change my bandage, and I'd rather not be seen…like that. I won't be long."

She seemed skeptical, but she left all the same. As the door shut, perhaps a bit more forcefully that necessary, Holmes started up from his rest. "It's all right," I told him, rushing to his side. "It's only Irene." Not that he would remember what I had said in five minutes. The morning would come, and he would be surprised to see us both when he awoke. But his face didn't clear as it had every other time I had tried to relax him back into his rest.

His brow furrowed and he made a strangled gurgling sound. He looked me in the eye with an accusing expression fixed across his countenance. "Not to be disturbed," he muttered, then turned over to face the wall.

"You said you'd solved it, Holmes. She can't disturb your work if it's already done." I know I shouldn't have expected him to make sense, but it was all I had to rely on anymore. He was all I had to rely on.

He began to speak without turning to face me. "Not me. Us. So little time." He turned back to me, taking my chin in his hand. "We must be quick about it." He said it with mischief in his eyes. And then he was asleep again.

He rose only once more before we were rejoined. "Thank you, old boy." His words were surprisingly clear and well-defined.

I turned from the door, thinking he had risen this time as the last time, finally casting off the daze and shiftlessness his poisons inspired within him. And, indeed, he was looking at me with clearer an expression than he had shown since I had found him, some few hours ago. "For what?"

He looked me up and down, smiled, and said simply, "Everything," before dropping once more, like a stone, back onto the mattress.

* * *

And the rest, dear reader, is certainly history. Holmes rose the next morning having no idea how we had come into his room, but quite happy to see that we had arrived, all of us in more or less the same one piece we had been in when last we parted company. He explained to us as quickly as he could what had been done, and what had yet to be done.

The police came after him not long past the time when he had awoken, and he surrendered himself to their most tender ministrations. I found out later that the boy, Ian, who I had trusted with the telegram, had betrayed us, but I did not take my money back from him. It had all been for the best, after all was done. I think it possible Holmes had even paid him in advance to do the very thing.

The three of us, Holmes, Adler and I, caught up with Blackwood's minions in the sewers below Parliament, foiled his most nefarious scheme, and Blackwood hung once and all above the London streets, through only fault of his own. Adler was, not for the first or last time, carted away to serve a prison sentence. And, for all my worry and assumed guilt, Holmes and I were never separated by the twisting winds of time.

In fact, Holmes and I still see one another often enough, spend just enough time together, that Mary sometimes expresses half-hearted concern that I may one day run off with him. There was a time when I found such notions amusing.

I have set this story to record only because it has been driving me to action. It has been bandying about in my mind for some many weeks now, and it has caused me quite a set of nervous dreams, or nightmares rather, wherein I return to that dark time, wandering the streets and searching for someone I fear I will never find. I awake so many mornings, drenched in sweat and feeling as though a portion of my heart has been less-than-surgically removed. Mary asks after me, but I can never bring myself to fully explain it to her. I have put these words to light in the vain hope of ridding myself this torture.

Now I must confess to you who may read this that I struggle with something of a dilemma. I do not know that this manuscript shall ever be released of my own will. It contains within it, as you may have realized, some rather incendiary material, and that which is most personal to me. But it is honest; it is true, every word. But in its truth, would it not reveal enough of myself as to become a liability? And what of Holmes?

Even now I wonder if I should not commit this bound testament to the flames by which I am currently writing. Holmes sits some few feet away, and I wonder if he does not know exactly what I have been doing all this time. No, there is more here of him, of us, than the public should be made to know. And the fire _is_ beginning to wane.


End file.
